


poisoned bleeding heart

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [25]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, but it is healthier, but not invalidated, feat ikael's deepest darkest secrets, his feelings are definitely overbearing, minor shadowbringers spoilers, the resolution isnt necessarily what he wants it to be, unreliable narrator to a certain extent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 15:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19930438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: I won't ever tell Thancred,Ikael had always thought, very reasonably. "Why don't I matter to you as much as I want to?" isn't usually a discussion that is pleasant to have.So why does he want to have it?





	poisoned bleeding heart

**Author's Note:**

> set post-shadowbringers, as per chronological order. only one real direct spoiler, but contains some minor offhand references.

It is night, and Ikael is awake.

Thancred is awake too, lying peacefully beside him. Ikael can feel his breathing against his ribs, calm and steady. He is gazing up at the ceiling of his—of _their_ room, Ikael reminds himself with a rush of shy warmth. He is gazing up at the ceiling of their room, pretty white eyelashes half-lidded, expression rarely tranquil. He makes a handsome portrait in the dim light of the moon. Ikael stares at him, swallows. Feels a rush of nervousness as his eyes skitter away, too cowardly to stay.

Why is he doing this? He does not know. He does not even want to know the answer to his question.

But... he does, of course. So he will do it.

“Thancred?” Ikael gets the one word out. That is all this is, he tells himself. One word after another.

He waits. The pause before Thancred's answer feels like it is far too short. Ikael should have more time—to prepare himself, to… He does not know.

“Yes?” Thancred's murmur is unhurried. He is completely unaware of what will come after this, good or ill—Ikael has to warn him. Has to ask him?

“Can—” _Deep breath, calm your breathing_ , like Thancred has taught him. Ikael tries again. On the exhale, he says, “Can I ask you a question?

_Good. Calm. Do not repeat yourself; keep going._

“Of course,” Thancred replies, still mild.

Right. Okay. Ikael takes another deep breath. Then another.

He cannot do this and still… still _watch_. He turns onto his side so that his back is to Thancred. It makes it a little bit easier to speak next.

“Did you. U-um,” Ikael whispers.

He is too terrified to continue, all of a sudden. He can feel his heart begin to pound in his chest, battering against his ribcage. For what seems like an eternity, there is nothing but the sudden overpowering awareness of his breathing, painful and ragged as he tries not to let it be audible.

 _Don’t cry. Thancred can feel you; he will know_. _When you have his answer, accept it. Think rationally; you live in the here and now. Don’t dwell on the past. Don’t dwell on the past. Don’t dwell on the past._

Here is now. Now is all that matters. _Don’t dwell on the past, no matter his answer._ Gods, why does Ikael feel the need to ask and tear his heart out for no reason? Why can he not simply be satisfied to live in ignorance?

Because the opportunity to know for certain is _there_ , so close. It is breathing calmly right next to him, gazing at the ceiling with progressively heavier lids. Ikael can know whenever he wants. He just needs to… _ask_. Needs to stop being a coward.

He tries to reason with himself, because he knows steeling himself will not work. Of course, Thancred's first thought upon arriving here had been of Minfilia, as the Exarch had said. He hadn’t been thinking of Ikael at all—it makes sense. It makes sense. Ikael should not expect any other answer. If he gets one, he—

His heart leaps in his chest. _No_. False hope is crueler than truth; he will not think about the possibility of getting what he does not expect. He cannot. He tries to even his breathing out. _Don’t dwell on the past_.

 _He didn’t miss you like you missed him._ Not the—the deep-seated ache Ikael had felt in every bone of his body, eating him from the inside out. _He didn’t. Don’t expect him to say yes._

Ikael breathes in, out, one last time. After what seems like forever, he says in a voice that is shaking only slightly, “Did you miss me? When you came here, I-I mean.”

There is silence. Ikael squeezes his eyes shut, fighting against a sudden onslaught of teary panic. _He didn’t answer yet, he didn’t say anything…_

“Of course.” Thancred's response is still quiet enough to not be abrasive in the darkness of the room. For a second Ikael thinks he can read almost an—an incredulous tone, perhaps, at the edges of his voice, and his heart—soars—and—

“Five years is a long time,” Thancred continues in the same reasonable sort of way.

Ikael’s stomach plummets like a stone. “Oh,” he manages to choke out.

So that is… it. _Five years is a long time_. Enough to miss… anyone, of course. Eventually. Ikael, yes, and also Tataru, Krile, the twins. Y'shtola and Urianger, until they had arrived. Of course. Of course. Ikael hadn’t expected anything more! Ikael hadn’t—he hadn’t—

The tears that leak from his eyes should not be a shock, really. Ikael instinctually falls into an old, old pattern: _Breathe through your mouth so you don’t make noise, don’t sniffle, don’t let your throat tighten_. He knows how to cry silently. It is not that he does not want Thancred's comfort, but more so that he does not want him to feel— _guilt_ —over something ridiculous like this. You cannot control how much you love someone. Even if you can, Ikael has hardly ever been—hardly been—a first… priority…

He closes his eyes. This pain, this—this— _physical_ pain, lancing through his heart and sticking, bleeding it, is inevitable. It is from the truth, it is from the past, and there is nothing anyone can do about it.

“Did you miss me?” Thancred's tone is light, somewhat teasing. He does not mean it in a cruel way, of course—of _course_ he does not, he would never—but the implication that Ikael would obviously miss Thancred—dearly—no matter his own feelings, is there, and for a bright moment it is humiliating. Ikael only nods, squeezing his eyes further shut. “Shh,” he whispers, feigning the need for sleep. A whisper does not need his voice. It cannot break.

Thancred shifts behind him. Ikael feels a shoulder press into his back, an arm tentatively offer itself to him. “Ikael—” Thancred says.

Ikael grabs his arm and tugs it to his chest, and then holds Thancred close, close, tight. “Shh,” he repeats, and the word shakes.

He feels Thancred take a measured breath, but he thankfully does not speak. He does move closer to Ikael, however, and it feels—nice. It does, it really does, and Ikael will leech comfort from wherever he can find it. This Thancred cares about him, he tells himself. Thancred here and now, and that is all that should matter. Ikael knows this. He _knows_ this. And yet…

~*~

Ikael feels so… _odd_ the next morning. On one hand, he should be fine. He and Thancred have something—something _good_ , and strong, and it makes Ikael so, so happy. It makes Thancred happy too, he knows, which is the better part of it. On the other hand, there is… a piece of Ikael, one that exists in the past, that is grieving. The Ikael of before the First. The one that had been lonely, and desperate, and missing his best friend more than anything else in the world.

But Thancred is right here, Ikael thinks as he watches him attempt to cook. And he is being so—so _sweet_. Ikael would never have thought to categorize Thancred as sweet, and he honestly does not think most people who know him would either, none less than Thancred himself. But sweetness does not have to be in honest words. It can be in acts, in acknowledgment, in effort. Thancred is trying so, _so_ hard to love in the best way he knows how to, and Ikael is so very proud of him.

Thancred glances over at him, and gives him a tight but amicable smile. First thing that he is doing that is sweet, Ikael thinks as he watches Thancred leave the eggs on the frying pan for a little too long. Trying to do something he would not normally do because he thinks it will cheer Ikael up. Whether his intent is to induce laughter, to show interest in Ikael’s passion, or to take the effort off his hands he is not sure, but he does know he finds it very touching all the same.

“Oh! I think I have burned them,” Thancred mutters as he reaches to turn the stove off. Ikael has to stifle a smile at that—Thancred is beginning to sound like him. Oh, Twelve…

He resists the urge to touch his hands to his cheeks, instead simply watching as Thancred plates the eggs, along with the toast and tomatoes he had fried earlier. His movements are graceful, although not entirely natural. He is copying what he has seen Ikael do, then. _Oh_ …

Thancred sits down across from him and hands him his plate with a tight, worried sort of… smile, for lack of a better word. Grimace, perhaps? Ikael nods at him gratefully, picks up his utensils, and begins to eat.

They eat quickly and in silence, which is mostly normal. What is different is the air between them; something thin and empty and sort of… absent. Thancred watches Ikael as he eats, which makes Ikael in turn stare at his plate. He wonders what they will say when they speak again, and what will come of it.

When they have finished, Thancred wordlessly takes their dishes to wash them. Ikael moves from the newly acquired (with Ikael’s money, of course) breakfast table to the worn loveseat, curling up on it.

He hears Thancred shut the sink off, wipe his hands. He walks past Ikael, who isn’t looking at him, and perches himself on the arm of the chair opposite him.

“So what is it?” he asks finally. “It is something I said, isn’t it? Last night, perhaps, that you read into?”

Oh. Ikael winces, drawing his knees tighter to his chest. “It is… nothing that can be helped, Thancred,” he mutters.

It is the sad truth. Nothing _can_ help mend a wound that lives in the past. Ikael is just feeling so… so _odd_. Everything he feels is contradicting itself, and he—he just…

“So there _is_ something.” Thancred's tone is almost triumphant. It makes Ikael want to laugh; of course there is something. It is not something _reasonable_ , but there is always something, isn’t there? And this is a deep-seated something that will never, he thinks, quite leave him.

“Thancred, I can promise you,” Ikael’s voice wavers only a little, “that it is not something that can be… changed. Will ever change. I-it… has always crept up on me.” He looks away. “It just gets to me on my off days, is all,” he finishes in a mumble.

“Tell me,” Thancred demands. After a beat, he seems to realize his tone, and his posture untenses. “I apologize,” he murmurs. “I simply… have had enough of secrets, and people not knowing what other people are feeling. If you do not feel comfortable telling me, that is… fine—” _It is not fine, then_ , Ikael thinks automatically, the corner of his mouth curling up, “—but I feel as if I have… done you ill. It is not like you to be this distant.”

 _No! No, Thancred_. Ikael looks at him upon hearing that, and smiles, sweet but still pained. “You did not do anything wrong,” he says softly. _I know you care_. “It is just… I am the one stuck in the past this time, is all.”

Thancred's eyes narrow ever-so-slightly, but he does not comment on that. “At risk of sounding like Urianger,” he says, “I will say that it would ease my heart to know your burden. At the very least relieve it of some culpability.”

Ikael acknowledges that with a nod, closing his eyes. He breathes in, out.

“I know that… perhaps it is not for the best.” Thancred is still speaking, carefully choosing his words. “Perhaps it _would_ be for the best if I simply… asked you what you needed. But if this is something that has always troubled you, as you say—and forgive me for saying this—then clearly whatever you have been doing has not been entirely successful. And we have… time now, Ikael. I would ask that you just give me a chance.”

Oh. _Oh_. And what is Ikael supposed to do after he says something like that? Still guard his poor little heart when all it wants to do is spill its secrets? He swallows, and when he looks away this time, it is because his vision is crystalizing.

“I just… missed you so,” he whispers.

He can _feel_ Thancred digesting that and trying to pierce through its meaning. After an impressively short pause, he says, “When I first arrived here in the First, you mean? Is this about what you asked me last night?”

Ikael nods, heavy gaze settling on a loose thread on the loveseat’s armrest. That odd, physical ache is back again, closing his throat up. He finds he cannot smile, cannot even look Thancred in the eye. Every part of his face feels as if it weighs a tonze, and if he were to move—anything—more than just the barest amount, it will all… he does not know. Crumble? Why is this affecting him so much anyways? Why is it so painful?

In his periphery, Thancred slips down to sit normally in the armchair. He hears short nails tap on wood. “I cannot know what you do not tell me, Ikael,” Thancred says, not unkindly.

“I-I-I can try,” Ikael gets out. The problem is that even _he_ does not know what he is reacting to, exactly. He had thought that he had gotten all of this over with last night. This particular fear only ever comes to him at night. But now it is back again, making every beat of his heart hurt in his chest. What is it, then?

What is it really?

“I-I-I just feel,” Ikael whispers, picking at the skin of his hands. Alright, there is a start. “I-I-I missed you a lot—a lot… more? Than you—than you missed me.”

There. The words are out. Ikael closes his eyes slowly, expression pained.

He hears Thancred shift. “Well, I do not think that is an entirely reasonable thing to conclude,” he says in what Ikael thinks is probably supposed to be a diplomatic tone. He is trying not to be emotional about this, then. “After all, you cannot truly know what I was thinking, can you? How can you weigh something like that on a scale without even having both weights?”

Why is he speaking so… philosophically? This is too… It isn’t working. Ikael shakes his head. “Never mind, Thancred,” he says quietly. “I just… Never mind.”

He gets up, heads to the kitchenette for lack of a goal, and begins to fuss around. A little bit of… reassurance, or something of that ilk would have been nice, but Ikael knows Thancred finds it difficult to use his words for that. And that is alright, it really is. Ikael does not want anything more from him than he can or will give. It not going to become an issue, he does not think.

He just feels tired. In a day or so, hopefully, this will all pass. It has never stuck with him this long before, but he thinks that is maybe due to the… circumstances this time around. Thancred is here with him, after all.

After about a minute of pointlessly opening cupboards, Ikael becomes aware of Thancred's presence behind him, although he had not heard him walk over. He stills and raises his head, but does not turn around. He… does not think he can make eye contact, not now.

“Forgive me. I fear I made the same… faux pas as I did last night.” Thancred sounds almost… hesitant, of all things. Ikael’s mouth twitches in what would have been a reflexive reassuring smile, had it formed.

“You have done nothing wrong, as I’ve said,” Ikael replies gently. He still feels so tired. “Please do not trouble yourself so.”

“Then—please—tell me what is troubling you in your own words,” Thancred all but pleads. Ikael blinks rapidly at the cupboard in front of him, startled. “Reassure me that it isn’t so.”

That is… a lot, for Thancred. Admitting vulnerability willingly is—Ikael turns around, his instinct to give comfort momentarily overpowering his need to brood.

“It is alright, Thancred,” he says softly, pressing a hand to the side of Thancred's face. Thancred's eyes flutter. “If you must know, I—”

He breaks off, throat suddenly too thick. Thancred's gaze—sharpens, all at once, and he says, “Yes?”

Ah—damned rogue. But Ikael is so… he is so _tired,_ and Thancred can sense it somehow, probably, which is why he is choosing now to push. It is not a strong push, but it is there, and Ikael finds himself finally folding under its even only slight pressure.

“You will hate me,” he says, voice cracking. His eyes slip shut.

He feels Thancred's hand cup his face, mirroring him. “I do not want you to hate yourself instead,” he replies.

 _Oh_. Ikael swallows. He feels a tear run down his cheek, and Thancred's thumb moves to catch it. For an instant, Ikael feels a rush of warmth from just that—warmth and sweetness and affection—and it is enough, for just that one brief second, to give him strength to say,

“The Exarch told me that as soon as you learned where you were, you asked about Minfilia.”

And the strength is gone. Ikael’s face starts to break.

He can feel Thancred's breathing underneath his palm, and it is steady. “Yes,” he says. “It was my first instinct. You know how I am; I had little else on my mind at the time.”

Ikael thinks he feels him smiling, pulling the skin near the heel of his hand. It will not last long, he thinks. Thancred will connect the dots before too long. The longer Ikael waits, in fact—the longer this silence stretches out—the less time he has. Quickly, he needs to—needs to say something, to stop Thancred from reaching too painful a conclusion. He has to—has to—supply one himself.

“Was I ever on your mind?” he blurts.

He feels Thancred's smile fade. At the tip of Ikael forefinger, near Thancred's temple, there is a tug. A frown, he thinks.

“Of course you were, Ikael,” Thancred says. “I was not _that_ single-minded. It…” Ikael hears him swallow. “It does not take too long to get lonely here, you know. Urianger and Y'shtola did not arrive until two years later, and by then I had had plenty of time t—”

“But I was never the focus,” Ikael interrupts. “You—you—just—remembered me as an absent friend. I-I-I was never—I was never—”

This is—too much. Too difficult. Ikael wants to give up, but he feels as if he cannot move. He opens his eyes, blinking a few times to clear his vision. Thancred is indeed frowning at him.

“Ikael—” he starts.

Ikael shakes his head before he can finish. “I was never—as important,” he gasps out, “As you were—to—to me. I-I was—I was—you were—had Minfilia, for two years you searched for her, and then you—then you _had_ her, or had—had Ryne at least, a-and you didn’t even—you didn’t seem like you missed me at _all_ when I finally saw you again.”

He pulls away. Distantly, he is aware that this is not true, that Thancred had found it—finds it—difficult, to express things when he has to fight his instinct to suppress them. But Ikael has to keep going, because he has opened this pit and he needs to either cross it or fall into it.

“I cried over you,” he admits finally, crying now once more, too much to see clearly. It is a blessing, to not be able to make out Thancred's face. “E-every day for—for at least a few weeks. I—I missed you so—so _fucking_ much, Thancred, you have—you—you have _no_ _idea_.” He pauses to gasp in air. The floodgates have opened now, and for once Ikael is glad of it, because it means he can finally— _finally_ —get all of this out, lay it all bare. “I-I-I took care of you, I looked after you, I cleaned you, I even dressed you! For—for—for Starlight, I-I-I…”

“Ikael,” Thancred says mutedly.

No. Ikael isn’t prepared for rejection yet; he has to get all of this out. “I knitted you a—a—blanket,” he tells him, smiling pathetically through his tears. “I-it was… it was red and orange and brown, because I thought you would look good in fall colours. I-I… made one for Tataru and Alisaie too, but yours was the most special. I-I-I missed you so _much!_ ” His voice is raising now, pitching as he gets upset. “I-I know everything I do seems—seems excessive, but it isn’t! I mean every—I mean every little bit of it, and it takes—it takes so much from me _._ So much.” His face creases. “I-I missed you… so much, and you’ve always mattered so much—so much more to me than I ever did to you, I-I _know_ that, a-and I’ve _accepted_ it, but it just—”

He crumples to the ground. “I-it just hurts… so much sometimes,” he cries, hugging his knees. “I-I-I just wan—want to be—that im—that important to someone.”

He finally slumps, weeping and holding himself tightly tightly tightly. He had been so—so lonely, and then no one here had given him so much as a hug without prompting, let alone _Thancred_ , and then—and then…

Thancred does not move to comfort Ikael as he cries. Nor does he as his sobs slowly subside, nor does he when he eventually quietens. When Ikael is finally done, when his fit is over and he feels horribly vulnerable and wanting, Thancred speaks up.

“What do you want, then, hm?” He steps forwards, until he standing is but a fulm away. He does not kneel. “Do you want the man you knew five years ago, perhaps? The Thancred from back then, who listens to you and smiles at you and comforts you and does not ever say Minfilia’s name around you?”

That makes Ikael look up. He shakes his head, horrified—no, that is not—of course he doesn’t—

Thancred crosses his arms. He keeps going. “Do you wish he were here now, perhaps? To hug you, tell you that everything is going to be alright—”

“Thancred,” Ikael whispers. He starts to cry again, silently this time. _Please don’t_.

“To tell you that he loves you, that he misses y—”

“Thancred, stop,” Ikael says, voice breaking.

Thancred stops. Ikael closes his eyes once more, crying soft, hiccupping sobs onto his bare knees. Mucus, saliva, and tears are forming a disgusting mess on rough skin, and it is far from something pleasant to push his face into. But Ikael does anyways, because it is much less humiliating than the alternative, which is to look up at Thancred. Dimly, in the back of his mind somewhere, he realizes that Thancred will probably kick him out now. He will tell him to go back to the Source, and live his joyless life there. Ikael finds that the thought is too dull for him to process properly. Later, he can break down about that, too. Later.

Thancred crouches down in front of him, but Ikael is not paying him any attention. He is thinking about how his knees taste, which is salty and not very good. He is thinking that he will have to wash his hair after this, because it is getting into his newly cut bangs and making them icky-sticky.

Ikael feels someone tug at him, and he relents, letting them move him without fighting back. He is pulled against a warm chest that smells like Thancred, and his knees are pushed down, gently and firmly, until they fall, and hit what feels like worn leather and his own skin. He feels a hand cradle his jaw, and then he is looking into Thancred's face. His beautiful brown eyes.

“Ikael,” Thancred says.

Ikael keeps looking at him. He is too exhausted to do anything else.

“Everything is going to be alright,” Thancred continues, voice low. His pretty, pretty eyes fall, lids drooping. “I-I… love you dearly, as I have said. I will not very well take that back at a time like this. And I have missed you, my dear, darling Ikael,”

His expression slowly melts. “…so very, very much,” he finishes in a murmur.

Ikael closes his eyes. He continues to cry, quiet and weak. Thancred does not move him, but after some time Ikael feel something soft and papery touch his cheeks.

A handkerchief.

He opens his eyes, only to stare blankly at nothing in particular. Thancred keeps cleaning him up, calm and consistent. The handkerchief whispers across Ikael’s knees and Thancred tuts softly, but cleans them too.

Finally, he finishes. Ikael leans against him, feeling too feeble to support his own weight.

“You do not have to be so selfish, Ikael,” Thancred tells him. Something inside Ikael cracks open, something raw and tender and fragile. Thancred continues, quiet but firm, “Love is not something that is… sectioned. Cut up and divided, like fruit to be distributed amongst children. One piece for Minfilia, a lesser piece for you. You did not… get her piece, so to speak, when she was gone, just as Ryne did not get it when I met her. Because there is nothing to be passed on. Nothing to be divided.”

Ikael slumps, shame sapping his strength. He will… listen. He owes Thancred so much, and that at the very least.

“That is not how love works,” Thancred continues. “It is only ever something that… grows, I think. Bigger and bigger, wider and newer and more far-reaching than sometimes you can even imagine. Until your heart is fit to bursting. And then you just…” He exhales in a puff of air. “… let it.”

Ikael closes his eyes. Guilt drips from them, down into his heart. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.

He feels lips press to his head. “You have carried this fear with you for a long time, and it is deep inside of you,” Thancred replies. “So deep that even you do not know, I think, the entirety of it. But you have… people for that now, Ikael. You have all of us, especially Urianger, whom I fancy might be of more help than you might think. And you have me, of course, although I believe that in some things, I should take a step back.”

Ikael swallows. He opens his eyes. “I… do not know what to think,” he admits. “I do not know how I feel.”

“That is alright.” Ikael feels a hand absently run over his head. “Let me say something, then, so at least one thing is very clear.”

Ikael’s lids droop. He nods, waiting.

“Your mother,” Thancred says. “From the way you speak of her, you love her dearly, correct? More than anything else in the worlds?”

Ikael opens his mouth to reply—because of course he—then hesitates. But…

“I-I… Not more than… I don’t…” His brow furrows. “I-I… you are important to me too,” he insists softly. He glances up, meets Thancred's steady gaze. “I-I-I… you are, I swear, Thancred, I…”

Slowly, he stops. Slowly, he begins to understand.

Thancred gives him the smallest of smiles. “I am certain I am,” he says placidly. “And for that I am very grateful, Ikael. You are a balm to this injured man.”

“Healing man,” Ikael asserts, protective for half a moment. Thancred's eyes soften.

“Healing man,” he restates in a tone that Ikael cannot entirely interpret in his current mind. “Anyways, that is enough of me baring my limitedly open heart for one conversation. Do you… sort of understand where I was going initially?”

Ikael does, he thinks. “Give me more examples?” he requests softly.

Thancred looks into nothing as he thinks. “Y'shtola,” he responds eventually. “We w—you were devastated when you thought she had fallen into that pit. Had she truly perished, would the void she would have left been filled by anyone else? Or would there always be a piece missing in your soul, one that was specifically—”

He clears his throat, quick and inobtrusive. “Y'shtola-sized,” he finishes, something just a little bit off in his voice.

_Oh, Thancred_ , Ikael thinks, sympathy blooming in the hollow corners of his mind. With that he manages to find some strength again, and he shifts around and hugs Thancred, clumsy but close.

Thancred tenses in surprise for but a moment, and then he melts into the embrace, returning it properly.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” Ikael whispers into his small hyuran ear. It does not flick at him like his own would at the closeness of his breath. “I am sorry if today has been difficult for you.”

Thancred's arms tighten, just a little. “I only hope I am enough,” he admits. “And if I am not—”

“You are more than enough,” Ikael interrupts. “I swear, Thancred. You are more than I ever thought I could have.”

His words are thick with sincerity, so much so that he finds that he cannot say anything else. Thancred does not seem to mind—he only pulls him closer still, and if Ikael feels dampness on his neck, that is neither here nor there. It is definitely not something he has to point out.

Well. Not now, at least.

Thancred draws back after a minute and clears his throat once more. “Anyways, I… I cannot measure the past, Ikael; the best I can do is change how it is seen. But the present?” His eyes sharpen in solemnity. “That is right here in front of me, and I cannot say that it is… all too awful.”

The side of his mouth tilts upwards. Ikael gives a little laugh before a sniffle, and nods, resting his forehead against Thancred's jaw.

“Ryne is with Urianger now, yeah?” he asks after a moment.

“Y'shtola,” Thancred corrects. His voice has mostly gone back to normal, even if Ikael’s has not. “She is teaching her… ah…” He winces. “… Things that _she_ is best prepared to teach a girl bordering on pubescence,” he finishes delicately.

Ikael feels himself grin. “To stay away from people like you used to be in your youth, eh?”

Thancred makes an offended noise. “That is not at _all_ what I meant,” he mutters. “… Although I assume she would have something to say about that as well,” he admits grudgingly. Ikael’s grin grows.

He kisses Thancred on the cheek, and then stand up clumsily before stretching. “I need to go nap,” he says. He extends a hand to Thancred, rubbing the other one across his face.

Thancred accepts the help up. “Then go,” he replies. “I have to refill my ammunition. I will be back before lunch, alright? Do not feel pressured to make it; we can eat out.”

Ikael raises an eyebrow. “Don’t feel like cooking again?” he asks with a smile.

Thancred snorts. “You are feeling fine now, are you not? I see no need to force laborious work upon myself for no reason.”

He heads to the door. Ikael cups his hands around his mouth and coos, a little mockingly, “What is that supposed to mean? Oh, _Thancred_ , you didn’t cook just to cheer little old _me_ up, did you? Why, I am so _flattered—”_

The door shuts in his face, Thancred safely on the other side. Ikael stares after him and laughs, small and breathy, before going to the bedroom.

Thancred is right. The past they cannot change, and to tell the truth Ikael does not think he would. But the present is at their fingertips, just within reach. And right now, it is everything.

~*~


End file.
